


Nerve

by swordliliesandebony



Series: Gladnis Drabbles and Shortfic [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Established Relationship, Grieving, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nerve Damage, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-17 15:00:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16098050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swordliliesandebony/pseuds/swordliliesandebony
Summary: [Written for Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt 'Nerve Damage']Ignis pretends it isn’t happening.This excuse works on most.Gladio is, of course, not so easily fooled.





	Nerve

Ignis pretends it isn’t happening. It’s a perfectly logical solution. He pretends that he’s grown clumsy in his twilight —pretends that mid-thirties by any standard constitutes a twilight— and it’s entirely natural that he might drop this or shatter that. His condition lends to such maladroit movement, he points out. This excuse works on most. Prompto, he thinks, will give a nod before recalling the futility of body language; it’s always a brief pause followed by an apology and a rushed ‘yeah, of course, no problem, buddy’. 

Gladio is, of course, not so easily fooled.

“You could tell me what’s going on. Whole lot easier than playing whatever game this is.” Gladio phrases it as a suggestion, as if Ignis won’t see through it. Metaphorically speaking. But what is he really expected to say? Gladio knows the truth of what happened. It came tumbling out, unbidden and unintended, far too easily and far too long ago. Noctis was only gone— and this was lower-case, trapped-a-decade gone, not the Gone he’s since become— for weeks before Ignis was confessing his deeds. He and Gladio had fallen easily into one another’s comfort, into one another’s arms, and, indeed, into one another’s truths.

So what does he tell his partner now, when the damage was all thought to be done? Does he admit that it’s been weeks since the hand that once donned some forbidden jewelry has felt anything but its phantom weight? Does he describe the brutal pain that stretches from his fingers to his elbow, shooting alternatively— and sometimes simultaneously— fire and ice through his veins? Does he apologize for shattering a good half of their tableware for the fact that his fingers are numb and clumsy, and when they feel at all they feel prickles of pain and twice their actual size? 

He doesn’t think there’s a terrible deficit of honesty in their relationship. Communication, on the other hand, may find itself lacking from time to time. He’s not the only culprit. It’s been months now of Noctis being Gone and barely a word on the subject has passed between them. They made it through memorials and tombs and hard nights with silent shed tears. But to make it through a conversation is something else entirely. And this conversation, this unwelcome rehash, what will it accomplish? What will it show other than more weakness— the same that got them here in the first place?

“It’s nothing, really.” Ignis says, but the words turn dry in his mouth, because he flexes his hand and he finds resistance. He finds that Gladio has taken it in his own, gentle, unnoticed. His head falls back and a deep gulp bobs in his throat and he feels suddenly trapped in a corner rather than sat on a sofa. 

“Nothing.” Gladio repeats the word, and there’s a cold sort of amusement in his voice. Ignis recognizes it. He’s not being cruel, he’s not looking for a fight, but he’s found frustration. Gladio has always erred in that direction when he’s faced with a wall. Once upon a time, it was a stubborn prince who evoked that sort of reaction. Now it’s just Ignis, a solid mass of brick and mortar if ever there was one. 

“It’s nothing that can be helped.” Ignis amends, and he feels this time that he’s being perfectly honest. He’s made his own inquiries, done what little research can be done. He’s settled on the fact that the damage done here is permanent, set deep in his nerves, and that the best he can hope for is the relief of some old wives’ tales, nothing that might actually  _ help  _ his situation. Perhaps if he had simply strained himself, overexerted, overtaxed, he might have more options. Options don’t exist when your injury is courtesy a dozen odd dead kings. 

“Not like you to give up so easy,” Gladio says, though Ignis isn’t sure that’s true any more. How many times have they given up so easily? They walked Noctis to his very death. They stood aside to let the world heal as it pleased. The sun rose again, or so some warmth on his cheeks implied, and they let it usher in whatever it would. They help where they can, but what help is a blind man with a hand that barely closes? What help is he, against a world designed to strip him of lifelong purpose? 

Gladio pulls away, something that Ignis is only aware of because the couch shifts beneath him with the imbalance of weight. The other doesn’t stand— there’s no telltale creaking or great springing-back of cushion— but he reaches across Ignis. He mistakes it for a moment as an embrace and, almost on instinct, leans into Gladio’s arm. There’s a stiffening there, a moment where Gladio doesn’t decide right away what to do, considers his options. It makes Ignis want to bolt, want to be anywhere but right there. But Gladio retrieves whatever it is he had sitting on the tableside nearest Ignis and, with his hand freed, he glides a thumb along the curve of Ignis’s jaw. It’s gentle, characteristic of the two of them, entirely unexpected should one only glance at Gladio and allow it to form a mental picture.

“Give me your hand.” Gladio instructs and Ignis acquiesces at once, a fair bit of shame playing warm at his cheeks. He surmises by the stretch of his arm that Gladio lays it out on his lap before the telltale scrape of a jar opening follows. He doesn’t feel the balm go on, not in the way one might normally feel such a thing. There’s pressure in the places where Gladio’s thumbs massage into his palm first, then over the backside of his hand. There’s something cool and moist along with it, though that sensation is more distant, more an echo of how he thinks the smooth glide of fingers on his skin should be accompanied. 

It feels good, but it feels good by nature of it being kind attention paid by someone he cares deeply for more than by nature of it having any real impact on his injury. There’s a slight tingling as the balm spreads. Ignis can smell something sharp and medicinal, akin to menthol. He thinks the whole venture a lost cause, but he doesn’t say that. He lets his head tilt back again— relaxation this time rather than frustration— and lets Gladio keep at work.

“What is it?” Ignis asks, while he slowly begins to flex his fingers again, Gladio’s work having moved up his forearm, near to the crook of his elbow. The scent isn’t unpleasant, but it’s strong. The feeling of the cream is changing and it’s becoming something akin to muscles waking up after being slept upon wrong. It’s not perfect, not by any means, but it’s feeling and it’s one other than pain and that’s something Ignis will take for all its worth. He can feel the shift of the couch— Gladio shrugging— and it makes him smile.

“I got it from one of the Exineris ladies. Said it helps a lot, the way they’re always workin’ with their hands.” Ignis is amused by it, really, the fact that Gladio hadn’t gone so far as to get any information on the substance. Only to know that it might help, and that Ignis might appreciate it. It makes his heart swell, makes his smile spread wider.  It’s impossible not to appreciate the attempt, whether it’s a perfect one or not. 

“Thank you, Gladio. I…” Ignis finds his voice trailing and he frowns at that fact. He should say more, he knows he should, but as for what—

“It’s what I’m here for. I’d be here for it more if you wouldn’t be so damn stubborn.” There’s a chuckle in the words though and they’re followed by the rough of beard against his cheek, then the softness of lips against his own. Ignis thinks, for just a moment, that he might be on to something. 


End file.
